The trusties who clean up the floor and the cells and make up our beds are mostly short term prisoners from the penitentiary. In spite of his stripes, one of them looks like a Greek athlete; his dark, curly hair, powerful chin, strong nose, the muscles showing through the striped shirt at the neck and arms, excite the respect and admiration of his fellow prisoners.
My trusty is a weak-faced individual, who is always fawning for a tip with which to gamble with his companions upstairs. His wife had him arrested for non-support. Although quite competent to make a living and to support his wife and three children, he confesses himself unable to resist the lure of the games of chance. Imprisonment has not reformed him in the least; on the contrary, indeed, for now he can gamble to his heart's content!
The detective who arrested me on a warrant asks to speak to me, and gives as a pretext his friendship for me. He feels neither rebuked nor offended when he is told that I am careful to choose my friends among my equals. Quite modestly he admits being only a petty larceny detective, but he is now anxious to discover who and what is behind the political game played in my case. He leaves in disgust when advised to adopt Sherlock Holmes's method of deduction.
V
Next morning, handcuffed to a young prisoner and accompanied by a score of men, I am taken to a pen. The place cannot be described in decent writing, but I can safely assert that a more filthy, disgusting place does not exist in New York. The stench is so sickening that I suffer the rest of the day from a splitting headache.
After an hour's wait I am brought into the presence of a kindly faced probationary officer who asks me for addresses of friends who might write to the judge, and inquires for certain facts concerning my case which did not come out during my trial. She also begs me to write a letter giving these facts, so that she can show it to the judge before sentence is passed on me. The result is negative, as the judge has already made up his mind about my case.
The young man who was handcuffed to my wrist goes into court to get his sentence. He returns, pale, trembling, almost fainting, and can only whisper hoarsely that he is going to state's prison in the morning for four years.
Another companion in misery is an Italian waiting for trial. He is indignant, even furious, at his treatment by the District Attorney. His case is a record breaker; he has been brought up for the two hundredth time without being tried. This is done to wear him out and force him to plead guilty.
A lean, dark-haired, young man with unpleasant features, suspected of having murdered a pal, tells a story of a third degree at headquarters.